on the road home the miles feelfaster than those on the roadout of town – my body respondsfrom muscle memory, my mindworking like a pace car,knowingwhat to feel with each passingbillboard, how long to wait,how to titrate the anticipation.familiar roads are shorter roads

the road from here to resurrectionis mapped in my mind (and myheart), from palms to parables,crowds to cross. I know the days,the steps, the words, the mileposts.my feet are covered with thedust from the feet of discipleswho walked this way when theroad was not so well marked

and Holy Week had not yetbecome so hurried or harried.I don’t want to get to Easterbecause the road is familiar,or the liturgy expected. I wantto be stricken and surprised,lost and found, broken andspilled out; I want to find myold footprints and know